B  3 


Testament  of 
William    Win  dune 


J.  H.  Wallis 


THE  TESTAMENT  OF  WILLIAM  WINDUNE 


The    Testament  of 
William   Win  dune 

and  Other  Poems 

by 

J.   H.  Wallis 


New  Haven:   Yale  University  Press 

London:   Humphrey  Milford 

Oxford  University  Press 

MDCCCCXVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 
BY  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


First  published,  September,  1916 


DEDICATION: 

TO  MY  WIFE. 

Dear  love,  I  write  but  silly  songs ; 

Our  daily  bread  I  cannot  earn ; 
To  grub  amid  the  money-throngs 

My  restless  spirit  will  not  learn. 

Dear  love,  I  dream  but  empty  dreams ; 

My  gold  is  hung  on  fairy  trees 
Or  in  that  West  where  Phoebus  gleams 

On  apples  of  Hesperides. 

Yet  in  thy  need  each  song  shall  be 
A  naked  sword  against  the  press  ; 

Each  dream  a  shield  to  shelter  thee 
In  token  of  my  stedfastness. 


358014 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Dedication :  To  my  Wife     .....       v 
The  Testament  of  William  Windune     ...       1 

Wind  Overhead 41 

My  Lady's  Lips          .          .          .          .          .          .44 

A  Precautionary  Measure    .          .          .          .          .45 

Feverish  Man  .......     47 

Impartial 49 

Yale  Revisited 51 

In  an  old  May  .          .          .          .          .          .53 

A  Summer  Day          .          .          .          .          .          .54 

Tempus  Omnia  Vincit         .          .          .          .          .56 

Acceptable  in  His  Sight       .          .          .          .          .57 

On  the  Hillside 58 

Lux  Exstincta  .......     59 

Mother's  Song  .          .          .          .          .          .61 

A  Ballad  of  John  Davidson          .         .         .          .62 

Winter 67 

Ode  to  Gaea  69 


The  Testament  of  William  Windune 

Being  a  Poem  in  which 

Windune  disposeth  of  his  worldly 

Goods,  and  maketh  Mention  and  Disposition 

of  divers  other  Matters, 
all  this  being  modelled  after 

The  Greater  Testament  of  Francois  Villon 


THE  TESTAMENT  OF  WILLIAM  WINDUNE. 

INTRODUCTION. 

Here   Windune  speaketh   of  his  Purpose. 

Here  in  my  thirty-second  year, 

The  ways  of  fate  considering, 
Knowing  how  death  is  ever  near, 

How  youth  and  life  are  on  the  wing 

And  ever  faster  hurrying 
As  if  on  some  mad  frolic  bent, 

I  give  my  pen  commissioning 
To  write  a  will  and  testament. 

Pen,  we  have  been  good  friends  enough; 

The  tie  that  binds  us  two  is  strong! 
Your  point  has  writ  some  startling  stuff 

And  wrought  its  share  of  right  and  wrong. 

This  bodes  to  be  no  lover's  song, 
But  bear  with  me  till  it  be  done  ; 

If  I  can  see  ahead  so  long 
'Twill  be  a  strange  and  mongrel  one. 

The  dictionary  I  entreat 

To  take  its  place  beside  my  hand ; 
It  holds  a  goodly  store  of  meat 

If  one  can  seize  and  understand. 

Thence  a  rich  banquet  for  the  grand 
A  master's  touch  could  conjure  forth, 

But  what  will  come  at  my  command 
May  be  of  very  doubtful  worth. 

[1] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


For  I  am  very  modest,  I 

Have  never  claimed  a  master's  touch; 
My  poor,  lame  verse  would  hardly  try 

To  stand  without  some  kind  of  crutch, 

And  so  I  do  not  hope  for  much, 
But  only  hope  I  may  present 

My  whimsicalities  and  such, 
Also,  a  binding  testament. 

Now  will  I  for  a  moment  tell 

Of  him,  my  prototype,  who  knew 
This  transitory  world  so  well 

His  ancient  verse  to  me  and  you 

Is  just  as  vital  and  as  new 
As  any  of  the  present  time. 

Would  we  had  one  like  him  to  do 
Some  rough,  hard  work  for  modern  rime! 


Here  followeth   the  Ballade  concerning  Frangois 
Montcorbier,  surnamed  Villon. 

BALLADE  OF  FRANQOIS  VILLON. 

After  the  Manner  of  his  own  Ballad  of  Things  known 
and  unknown  as  translated  into  English  by  John 
Payne. 

The  lack  of  bread  he  knew  full  well, 
The  empty  glass,  the  cupboard  bare, 

Also  the  prison's  wretched  cell, 
Its  vermin  foul  and  meagre  fare; 

[2] 


TESTAMENT    OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


He  knew  too  well  the  gallows  where 
Death  almost  claimed  him  for  its  own, 

Where  friends  of  his  blew  in  the  air — 
He  knew  all  save  himself  alone. 

He  knew  the  power  of  beauty's  spell; 

He  knew  true  love  of  ladies  fair; 
But  more  he  knew  of  those  who  sell 

Lust's  fleeting  joys  and  fleshly  ware; 

He  knew  the  drunkard's  bleak  despair, 
The  thief's  chill  fear,  the  outcast's  groan, 

He  knew  a  dead  foe's  glassy  stare — 
He  knew  all  save  himself  alone. 

From  king  and  court  to  cockle-shell 
Of  all  the  world  he  was  aware; 

But  most  he  used  to  think  and  tell 
How  time  brings  all  to  disrepair, 
How  youthful  breasts  and  lips  and  hair 

By  age  are  soiled  and  overgrown; 

He  knew  how  death  ends  every  care — 

He  knew  all  save  himself  alone, 

L'EnvoL 

You  poets  sour  or  debonair, 

I  pray  you  tell  if  you  have  known 

One  else  of  whom  you  could  declare, 
He  knew  all  save  himself  alone. 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Here    Windune    craveth    Leave    to    introduce    a 
Digression. 

Now,  Reader,  bear  with  me  a  time 

While  that  I  write  of  him  whose  way 
Draws  to  the  bitter,  final  climb 

And  to  the  misty  end  of  day; 

Of  one  so  near  I  would  not  say 
(For  father  has  he  been  to  me) 

Save  that  it  seems  his  story  may 
Apply  to  all  humanity. 

Now  Windune  writeth  of  his  Uncle. 

My  Uncle  lies  near  death,  beside 

A  row  of  bottles  small  and  great, 
For  lack  of  which  he'd  soon  have  died, 

(Or  would  more  likely  live,  some  state.) 

His  wasted  body  has  the  weight 
Dead  bodies  have,  his  voice  that  rung 

So  clear  can  scarce  articulate, 
His  tongue  is  like  a  dead  man's  tongue, 

He  wants  me  near  him,4  we  were  such 

Good  friends  and  comrades,  youth  with  age. 

But  now  I  cannot  help  him  much 
In  this  last  fight  he  has  to  wage, 
Nor  would   I  take  the  pilgrimage 

He  has  to  take  so  soon,  although 
With  him  by  motor,  rail  or  stage 

I  ever  have  rejoiced  to  go. 

[4] 


TESTAMENT    OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


How  can  it  be  that  he  will  die 

And  lie  forever  starkly  still 
And  never  greet  me  more,  while  I 

Am  free  to  tread  each  field  and  hill 

Which  he  so  loved  and  never  will 
Once  see  again?    All  these  will  dim 

And  my  choked  heart  with  anguish  fill 
Because  they  were  half  made  of  him. 

Ye  hills  and  vales  of  his  estate, 

Ye  fields  that  'neath  his  guidance  grew, 

Ye  forests  that  the  axe's  weight 

Has  scarcely  touched  to  thin  and  hew, 
Will  not  a  shiver  tremble  through 

Crags,  slopes  and  valleys,  wailing  breath 

Shriek  through  the  woods,  fields  weep  in  dew, 

When  your  old  master  yields  to  death? 

Nay,  ye  will  smile  beneath  the  sun, 

Or  drip,  as  ever,  with  the  rain  ; 
Ye  will  not  care  when  he  is  done 

Nor  grieve  ye  shall  not  feel  again 

His  step  in  woodland  or  in  plain; 
Ye  care  no  more  that  he  departs 

Than  for  the  last  year's  crop  of  grain — 
But  what  of  us,  our  broken  hearts? 

If  it  be  morn  or  afternoon 

He  does  not  know  nor  care,  he  lies 

All  day  and  night  in  semi-swoon 
With  dullness  in  his  pale  blue  eyes, 
The  same  that,  ever  kind  and  wise, 

[5] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Saw  me  come  into  being,  then 

Watched  every  act  and  enterprise 
Until  I  reached  the  realm  of  men. 

How  hard  it  is  to  realize 

That  he  the  years  have  got  at  bay 
Once  had  two  sweet,  blue,  baby  eyes 

And  every  cunning  baby  way; 

Yea,  he,  nigh  ninety  years  to-day, 
Once  lay,  all  pink  and  warm,  inside 

His  tiny  crib  and  crowed  in  play — 
A  mother's  joy,  a  father's  pride. 

Hard,  too,  it  is  to  comprehend 

That  he  who  lies  worn-out,  supine, 
Once  had  the  fire  that  youth  can  lend 

When  life  is  fair  and  fresh  and  fine. 

His  heart  beat  fast  as  thine  or  mine 
When  his  beloved  he  espied; 

What  pride  and  joy  almost  divine 
He  felt  the  day  he  claimed  his  bride! 

Now  the  old  bride  complains  that  she 

Can  only  hobble  while  there  pass 
With  jaunty  step  full  springily 

The  lusty  lad  and  happy  lass. 

No  step  of  all  the  thoughtless  mass 
Is  quick  as  his,  she  oft  has  said; 

Then  with  bowed  head  she  groans,  "Alas!" — 
God  pity  her  when  he  is  dead ! 

O  God,  if  any  God  there  be, 

Relieve  him  of  this  grievous  strain, 

[6] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


O  give  him  back  to  mine  and  me 

In  strength  and  ruddy  health  again. 
Life  filled  him  so  in  every  vein 

That  life  seems  an  essential  part 
Of  that  quick,  curious,  tireless  brain, 

Of  that  great,  loving,  noble  heart. 

Uncle,  when  you  are  dead  and  done 
And  in  the  yellow,  lifeless  ground 

Lies  what  has  loved  us,  every  one, 
And  what  we  loved  beyond  all  bound, 
Although  we  think  you  nobly  crowned 

With  a  great  goodness,  there  remains — 
Aside  from  hopes  and  thoughts  profound — 

But  grains  of  dust  with  other  grains. 

When  we,  whose  love  for  you  is  such 
Our  hearts  are  choked  with  woe  of  it, 

Have  joined  you  where  no  tongue  can  touch 
Our  molding  minds  with  shafts  of  wit, 
Where  never  poignant  grief  can  hit 

Hearts  that  once  mourned  but  then  will  not, 
Your  name,  which  by  our  love  was  lit, 

Will  then  be  nearly  quite  forgot. 

If  kings  who  ruled  in  pomp  and  fame 

Are  now  so  far  forgotten,  men 
No  longer  even  know  the  name 

Of  him  who  shook  the  nations  then, 

How  can  you  hope  to  live  again 
In  thoughts  of  one  long-distant  mind, 

When  all  your  claim  to  fame  has  been 
That  you  were  always  good  and  kind? 

[7] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


The  breathless  centuries  will  roll 

Above  you  in  your  narrow  cell 
And  none  will  know  that  once  a  soul 

That  loved  the  world  exceeding  well 

Lies  where  the  thrifty  hucksters  dwell 
Or,  haply,  in  the  market-place 

Or  where  the  argent  asphodel 
Shows  to  the  sun  its  timid  face. 

Here  Windune  pauseth  a  Moment  to  say  Farewell 
to  some  who  may  likely  survive  him. 

Perhaps  this  message  will  be  read 

In  those  deep  silences  that  fall 
About  the  precincts  of  the  dead 

When  something  lies  beneath  its  pall. 

If  so,  I  ought  to  say  to  all 
Who  may  remain  when  I  am  through 

With  all  this  noisy  beck  and  call 
Some  word  of  greeting  and  adieu. 

No  fancied  shadow  waits  for  me, 

No  nightmare  of  the  realm  of  dreams 
From  which  one  gains  reality, 

Waked  by  the  sunlight's  golden  beams. 

This  Thing  is  Real ;  not  all  our  schemes 
Nor  all  our  subtle  modes  of  thought 

Can  make  of  it  a  Thing  which  Seems 
Nor  change  the  nature  of  that  Nought. 

I  press  my  calves  and  thighs  and  hips, 
My  arms  and  back  and  neck  and  chest, 

[8] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM   WINDUNE 


My  cheeks  and  forehead,  chin  and  lips, 

By  a  cold  panic-fear  possessed; 

Beneath  the  warmth  my  hands  attest 
The  charnel  bones  I  feel  in  place 

And  glimpse,  in  thought,  a  grinning  jest, 
A  fleshless  skull,  beneath  my  face. 

So,  since  I  must,  I  say  farewell 

To  earth  and  all  its  pleasant  things. 

And,  Ancient  Mother,  let  me  tell 
How  much  I  loved  your  happenings, 
Your  clowns  and  workers,  thieves  and  kings, 

Your  glaring  scenes  of  great  display, 
Your  homely  fireside  comfortings, 

Your  gracious  night,  your  golden  day. 

I  say  farewell,  mine  enemies, 

Such  as  survive  me  on  The  Day. 

(I  know  I  have  a  host  of  these, 
And  yet  I  somehow  hope  that  they 
Will  let  Time's  whisk-broom  brush  away 

Old  memories  of  quarrels  done, 

That  I  may  shift  from  man  to  clay 

With  malice  from  and  toward  none.) 

Friends,  cover  up  my  worthless  corse 
And  waste  no  time  in  fruitless  tears; 

Most  likely  when  I've  spent  my  force 
I  shall  have  had  my  share  of  years 
And  said  my  say  amid  my  peers 

And  know  the  little  joys  of  men. 

Weep  not  for  me ;  your  hour,  too,  nears, 

And  I  shall  not  be  weeping  then. 

[9] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Dear  children,  whose  gay  laughter  brings, 
Much  more  than  Phoebus  does,  the  morn, 

(And  you  who,  'neath  Time's  folded  wings, 
May,  as  I  write,  be  still  unborn,) 
Think  not  of  me,  I  pray,  with  scorn 

When  death  has  left  my  weakness  plain, 
Think  rather  how  my  heart  has  borne 

Such  love  for  you  it  seemed  like  pain. 

Here    Windune   entereth   upon   Matter   of   great 
Erudition. 

The  stars  in  their  unhuman  skies 

Are  hanging,  fixed  and  frigid,  whence 
They  watch  with  white  and  listless  eyes 

The  vision  of  man's  impotence. 

For  what  is  man  who  hurries  hence 
'Mid  tiny  throbs  of  joys  and  tears 

To  these  whose  awful  consequence 
Endures  of  many  million  years? 

What  of  this  round  of  day  and  night 

In  which  the  sun  the  stars  doth  slay, 
In  which  the  moon  doth  put  to  flight 

The  sun  until  another  day? 

What  does  it  mean  or  bode,  I  pray, 
Is  there  no  goal,  no  ultimate, 

Will  Time  forever  toss  and  play 
With  worlds  caught  in  the  gin  of  Fate? 

What  is  the  use  of  all  this  life? 

Time  toys  with  senseless  force  and  dust, 

[  10] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Transmutes  them  into  man  and  wife 

Or  into  hate  or  love  or  lust. 

Each,  as  it  is  predestined,  must 
Begin  and  flourish,  lastly  fall, 

So  that  we  can  but  question,  just 
What  is  the  goal  or  good  of  all? 

Time  toys  with  senseless  force  and  dust 
And  by  his  wondrous  wand  transmutes 

The  same  to  baker's  dough  or  crust 
Or  lovely  girls  in  linen  suits, 
To  chauffeurs  who  elude  pursuits, 

To  millionaires  and  motormen, 

To  waving  grains  or  luscious  fruits — 

Then  whirls  it  all  to  dust  again. 

There  must  be  some  delusion  here. 

Our  lives,  if  finite,  cannot  be 
If  there  exists,  as  would  appear, 

A  temporal  infinity.* 

And  yet,  none  could  convince  us  we 
Are  non-existent.     Hence  a  press 

Of  studies  in  philosophy 
Arise,  in  number  numberless. 


*By  mathematical  calculation  seventy,  a  life's  span, 
is  no  part  of  infinity,  or  seventy  divided  by  infinity 

/70  \ 

equals  nothing.    (  —  =0.    ) 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Here  followeth  the  Ballade  of  the  true  Reality. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  TRUE  REALITY. 

The  Roman  ladies  sat  and  spun 

And  gossiped  in  the  knowing  way 
That  gentle  dames  have  always  done, 

And  sewing  circles  do  to-day. 

But  they  by  time  were  swept  away 
Where  none  can  hear  them  more  or  see; 

And  we  shall  last  no  more  than  they — 
What  is  the  true  reality? 

Through  five  informants  we  have  one 

Coordinate  report;  we  say 
Our  minds  have  gained  dominion 

Of  suns  and  planets,  air  and  clay. 

But  changed  is  all  as  night  from  day 
To  one  with  senses  four  or  three. 

Who  knows  what  six  might  not  display— 
What  is  the  true  reality? 

A  ship  of  many  a  thousand  ton 
When  sighted  is  a  speck  of  gray; 

Each  star,  although  a  flaming  sun, 
Seems  but  a  dot  of  luminous  ray, 
Less  than  a  puny  seed  of  hay 

Held  overclosely  to  the  eye. 

What  standard  is  there  to  portray 

What  is  the  true  reality? 

[  12] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


L'Envoi. 

Professors,  can  time  make  and  slay 

An  entity,  can  senses  be, 
With  space,  delusion?    Tell  me,  pray, 

What  is  the  true  reality? 

Here   Windune   continueth   on   Matter   of  great 
Erudition. 

The  world  is  full  of  wonders,  all 

And  each  is  wonderful  to  me. 
In  kitchen-vessels  on  the  wall, 

Hanging  on  hook  or  nail,  I  see 

Types  of  materiality, 
Reminders  man  and  metals  fall 

In  the  same  class  with  bird  and  bee 
As  crumbling  and  ephemeral. 

The  world  is  full  of  wonders,  none 

Is  more  than  other  wonder-worth; 
The  marvel  of  the  white-hot  sun 

Is  no  more  than  the  least  of  earth. 

A  tree  of  many  feet  in  girth 
In  this  is  as  a  grain  of  corn; 

We  wonder  at  the  primal  birth: 
Whence  was  the  least  or  greatest  born? 

Man  in  his  selfish,  finite  style 

Seeks  starts  and  ends  in  all,  because 
He  ends  in  such  a  little  while ; 

[  13  ] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM   WINDUNE 


The  universe  to  human  laws 

He  tries  to  twist;  his  self-applause 

Must  tickle  Fate  whose  talons  bend 

Man  with  all  else,  who  knows  there  was 

No  start  and  ne'er  will  be  an  end. 

We  see  such  varied  forms  of  life, 

Such  whirling  matter  thrown  and  thrust, 

Such  changing  and  eternal  strife 
Of  crumbling  dust  with  other  dust, 
Yet  under  each  deceptive  crust 

Of  mind  and  matter,  man  and  sun, 
In  force  and  atom  bides,  we  trust, 

The  essential  and  pervading  one. 

Indeed,  I  think  all  men  who  pry 

As  man  is  able,  half-aghast, 
In  the  Great  Deep,  must  testify 

To  one  conclusion  at  the  last: 

God  is  the  present  and  the  past, 
The  future  (without  any  goal), 

The  atom  small,  the  planet  vast, 
The  single  life,  the  cosmic  whole. 

If  there  be  anything  abstract 

We  cannot  ever  hope  to  find 
Its  nature,  bound  in  thought  and  act 

By  pentagons  of  sensuous  mind. 

The  mysteries  that  lurk  behind 
Those  flimsy  walls  that  never  bend 

To  light  the  soul  therein  confined, 
Are  mysteries  unto  the  end. 

[  14] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Truly,  the  mystery  of  things 

Must  be  our  strongest  comfort,  for 
With  all  our  dread  imaginings 

We  ne'er  are  sure  what  lies  in  store. 

Though  man  with  piercing  mind  explore 
In  nature's  ways  complex,   involved, 

The  One  Great  Secret,  as  before, 
Will  ever  be  unknown,  unsolved. 

Negroes  and  lower  animals 

Give  most  disquieting  offense 
To  one  whose  mind  despairing  calls 

For  proof  of  human  permanence. 

Does  man's  imperial  eminence 
Make  him  eternal?     Where  and  why 

Can  one  divide  with  any  sense 
Immortals  from  the  beasts  that  die? 

"We  have  but  faith,  we  cannot  know," 

For  all  we  know  would  point  our  doom, 
What  we  can  grasp  would  go  to  show 

The  fearful  meaning  of  the  tomb. 

One  race  that  fills  another's  room 
Is  all  our  minds  can  help  us  see, 

And  faith  is  all  that  lights  the  gloom 
That  overhangs  our  destiny. 

Yet  is  it  not  a  privilege 

To  dwell  with  such  great  company, 
Here  on  the  old  earth's  whirling  edge 

In  sight  of. stars  and  nebulae? 

And,  to  be  fair,  what  rights  have  we 

[15] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


To  lives  of  large,  eternal  scope? 
Are  we  not  lucky  just  to  be? 
And  further — we  can  cling  to  hope. 

But  I  must  stop  my  rambling  prate 

And  give  my  gentle  readers  rest; 
They'd  rather  far,  I  dare  to  state, 

That  I  at  once  begin  to  test. 

So,  I  shall  leave  where  I  think  best 
Certain  great  grants  of  varied  sort; 

And,  first,  the  best  and  costliest 
To  legatees  of  high  import. 

Here  Windune  beginneth  to  test. 

THE  TESTS  THAT  WINDUNE  MADE, 

Item,  unto  my  Mother  Earth 

I  leave  my  body,  not  that  she 
Suffers  from  such  a  present  dearth 

That  she  has  need  of  little  me, 

But  that  my  generosity 
Extends  so  far  that  I  would  pay 

At  death  what,  as  a  life-lessee, 
I  have  enjoyed  this  many  a  day. 

My  soul,  if  such  a  thing  I  have, 
I  pray  the  great  God  take  in  care 

And  let  it  not  within  the  grave 
The  fate  my  body  suffers  share. 

[  16] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM   WINDUNE 


He  gave  my  mind  these  things  to  bear: 
Self-consciousness  and  longing  not 

To  have  that  self  destroyed,  unfair 
'Twould  be  to  leave  that  self  to  rot. 

These  souls  distinct  and  separate 
Cause  all  our  petulance  and  fret; 

We  should  not  rail  at  death  and  fate 
And  be  so  mightily  upset, 
If  we,  without  these  egos,  met 

In  one  eternal  union; 

Death  makes  us  thus,  some  say,  and  yet 

The  process  is  a  painful  one. 

Perhaps  as  beggars  give  the  moon 

I've  offered  God  this  gift  of  me, 
I  have  my  doubts  that,  late  or  soon, 

I've  ever  been  an  entity; 

Souls  daily  change  and  seem  to  be 
The  shiftiest  of  all  that  shift — 

This  talk  is  pretty  dull,  perdie; 
I'll  turn  me  to  some  other  gift. 

Item,  a  home  that  bears  his  name 

I  leave  unto  the  god  of  war; 
I  mean  I  give  him  perfect  claim 

Unto  the  mirky,  blood-red  star. 

There  let  him  rule  alone,  afar 
From  all  our  nations  old  and  new; 

Such  distance  were  efficient  bar 
To  stop  the  deeds  he's  glad  to  do. 

[  17] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Brothers  and  sisters  of  the  earth, 
Small,  groping  creatures  who  engage 

In  schemes  of  most  aspiring  worth, 
I  leave  you  this  rich  heritage, 
Common  to  all,  that  while  you  age, 

Dwindle  and  shrivel,  you  may  be 
Equal  before  the  conquering  rage 

Of  One  Eternal  Chartless  Sea. 

To  maids  and  youths  in  every  land, 

Of  smiling  face  and  footstep  light, 
I  grant  you  may  not  understand 

The  meaning  of  time's  giddy  flight. 

May  days  be  fair  and  nights  be  bright, 
May  life  for  you  its  joys  unfold. 

You  will  need  memories  in  the  night 
Of  life's  decline  when  you  are  old. 

O  happy  young  folks,  here  and  there, 
To  whom  the  world  is  jest  and  play, 

Who  sleep  at  night  without  a  care 
And  laugh  with  the  recurring  day, 
I  dread  to  think  what  heavy  way 

You  have  to  tread,  what  thorns  it  hath, 
And  how  your  feet  will  wish  to  stray 

Back  to  the  sunny,  rose-strewn  path. 

For  all  your  smiles  and  pleasant  ways, 
For  all  your  bodies  lithe  and  new, 

You  cannot  halt  a  whit  the  days 
That  lay  their  heavy  load  on  you. 
'Tis  little  that  a  day  can  do! 

[  18] 


TESTAMENT    OF   WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Light  as  a  leaf  it  falls  upon 

Your  lives ;  yet  those  the  years  will  strew 
Will  crush  you  with  a  weight  of  stone. 

Item,  I  leave  unto  the  old, 

Blind  minds,  dull  hearts  that  cannot  feel 
The  woe  that  cometh  with  the  cold 

Of  age,  the  woe  that  nought  can  heal. 

I  leave  them  wealth,  that  great  appeal 
Which  wins  a  throng  to  listen  to 

Old  stories  that  time  cannot  steal, 
Old  jokes  age  thinks  as  good  as  new. 

What  hope  have  you,  old  men  and  bowed, 

Who  sit,  all  bent,  before  the  fire? 
You  take  no  interest  in  the  crowd, 

Its  fresh  ideas,  its  new  attire. 

No  common  human  wants  inspire 
Your  outworn  flesh  and  souls,  no  whit 

Of  tremulous  or  hot  desire 
Shakes  you — you  have  forgotten  it. 

Your  minds  are  crowded  so  with  things 

You  scarcely  know  the  past  has  fled; 
The  friends  who  left  'mid  sorrowings 

You  do  not  feel  are  done  and  dead. 

Old  scenes  and  times  revisited 
By  journeys  into  memories'  land 

Have  tangled  so  your  life's  long  thread 
That  change  you  cannot  understand. 

Item,  I  leave  a  verse  to  you, 

Old  men  who  have  not  far  to  go, 

[  19  ] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM   WINDUNE 


Yea,  unto  you  old  women  too 

Who  once  were  fair  and  young,  I  know, 
A  verse  to  prove  the  overthrow 

Of  all  the  great  the  earth  has  known, 
That,  thinking  of  your  way  of  woe, 

You  need  not  then  feel  so  alone. 

Here  followeth  the  Ballade  of  Death  that  Win- 
dune  made  for  old  Men  and  old  Women  too. 

BALLADE  OF  DEATH. 

The  tender  flowers  that  bloom  in  spring 

And  set  the  woods  and  hills  a-glow 
Are  dead  and  all  their  blossoming 

Is  gone  before  the  hot  winds  blow. 

And  all  that  June  is  proud  to  grow: 
The  rose  and  more  of  sweeter  breath, 

Are  vanished  ere  the  winter's  snow — 
There  is  no  conqueror  like  death. 

The  gods  are  dead,  from  governing 

Zeus  abdicated  long  ago, 
And  Thor  has  ceased  his  thundering, 

With  Western  Folk  that  bide  below 

Osiris  sleeps,  and  Pan  is  so 
Silent  no  man  discovereth 

His  den  by  wood  or  water-flow — 
There  is  no  conqueror  like  death. 

Philip,  the  Macedonian  king, 

Who  laid  the  way  for  him  to  go 

[20] 


TESTAMENT    OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Who  wished  more  worlds  for  conquering, 

Fell  by  one  never-beaten  foe. 

And  Hannibal  and  Scipio — 
All  conquerors  it  conquereth — 

Came  to  their  final  overthrow- 
There  is  no  conqueror  like  death. 

L'Envoi. 

Sweet  ladies  and  strong  men  also, 

What  fear  is  this  your  pallor  saith? — 

That  even  you  dread  death  must  know?— 
There  is  no  conqueror  like  death. 

To  little  children  I  bequeath 

Indefinite  continuance 
Of  failure  to  see  underneath 

Their  parents'  sin  and  ignorance. 

May  never  smile  nor  guilty  glance 
Their  gentle  credence  undeceive; 

Quite  soon  enough  they'll  view  askance 
The  world,  when  childhood's  realm  they  leave. 

You  ministers  who  preach  and  pray, 

I  leave  to  every  one  and  each 
Ability  in  every  way 

To  know  and  practice  what  you  preach. 

Such  gems  of  thought  and  flowers  of  speech 
Our  strained,  attentive  ears  receive, 

I  will  your  own  beliefs  may  reach 
The  things  you  ask  us  to  believe. 

[21] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


To  politicians  sure  and  swift 

The  popular  desire  to  scent, 
Whose  uttermost  convictions  shift 

Whenever  it's  expedient, 

Who  smell  the  coming  great  event 
While  busy  blocking  Progress'  way, 

Then  claim  the  whole  accomplishment — 
A  few  sententious  words  I  say. 

Here  followeth  a  few  sententious  Words  addressed 
to  Politicians  in  the  Form  of  a  Ballade. 

BALLADE  FOR  POLITICIANS. 

For  maidens'  lips  that  part  and  pout, 

For  eyes  that  stir  as  well  as  see, 
For  rains  through  which  the  sun  comes  out 

And  gilds  the  meadow,  stream  and  tree, 

For  music  that  has  melody 
All  full  of  mystic,  golden  notes, 

For  Christmas  dinners  savory — 
For  such  good  things  I  cast  my  votes. 

I  frown  on  all  the  swinish  rout 

Who  sneer  at  honest  purity, 
Whose  cheap  derision  tries  to  flout 

All  who  are  clean  in  some  degree. 

For  honor,  virtue,  decency, 
And  all  of  evil's  antidotes, 

For  God  and  immortality — 
For  such  good  things  I  cast  my  votes. 

[  22] 


TESTAMENT    OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Some  angel's  wit  should  bring  about 

A  record  for  eternity 
Of  all  earth's  doings  while  en  route 

Across  the  star-strewn  cosmic  sea. 

The  deeds  that  mold  earth's  history, 
The  songs  that  rise  in  children's  throats, 

Both  filmed  and  phonographed  should  be — 
For  such  good  things  I  cast  my  votes. 

L'Envoi. 

Vote-seekers  all,  give  heed  to  me 

And,  'mid  your  rush  for  jobs  and  groats, 

Observe  most  reverentially 

For  what  good  things  I  cast  my  votes. 

Item,  I  leave  unto  the  great, 

Wide  city  of  the  central  plain 
The  will  and  power  to  expurgate 

Itself  of  many  a  nasty  stain; 

I  trust  it  may  not  fail  to  gain 
Full  many  glories  more  than  size, 

To  help  it  to  them  I  ordain 
It  see  itself  with  others'  eyes. 

Item,  I  leave  my  Mother  Yale 

Stern  honor  and  a  stainless  name 
To  serve  her  as  a  coat  of  mail 

'Gainst  all  who  seek  to  hurt  her  fame. 

I  leave  her  zeal  as  fierce  as  flame 
To  tread  the  way  of  light  and  truth, 

And  through  immortal  age  the  same 
Great  wisdom  and  immortal  youth. 

[23  ] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM   WINDUNE 


To  houses  that  we  know  have  got 
Distinction  in  great  nature's  plan, 

In  that  it  long  has  been  their  lot 
To  shelter  most  imperial  man, 
I  leave  what  monument  I  can 

Of  verse,  also  a  warning  give 

That,  though  they  have  a  lengthy  span, 

E'en  they  do  not  forever  live, 

Here  followeth  the  Ballade  of  Houses. 

BALLADE  OF  HOUSES. 

Proud  houses  with  your  towers  in  air, 
With  winding  road  and  royal  gate, 

In  park  or  lordly  thoroughfare, 
Or  crowning  some  superb  estate, 
Although  you  shelter  rich  and  great, 

Be  not  too  lordly,  for  you  must 
Be  made  aware,  or  soon  or  late, 

Time  lays  all  houses  in  the  dust. 

God's  houses,  you  are  tall  and  fair, 

To  life  eternal  consecrate, 
Builded  with  man's  extremest  care 

To  bear  the  years'  destroying  hate. 

But  shrines  of  many  an  ancient  state 
Are  ruins  and  their  gods  out-thrust 

Can  you  not  see  the  will  of  fate: 
Time  lays  all  houses  in  the  dust? 

[24] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM   WINDUNE 


Want's  houses  frail  with  disrepair, 

With  light  and  air  inadequate, 
With  dingy  hall  and  dirty  stair, 

For  wreck  you  have  not  long  to  wait; 

You  houses  where  there  congregate 
Men  who  rent  bodies  for  their  lust, 

Soon  you  will  feel  the  edict's  weight: 
Time  lays  all  houses  in  the  dust. 

L* Envoi. 

God's  houses  none  would  desecrate, 
Want's  houses  bare  of  meat  or  crust, 

Lust's  houses,  houses  tall  and  straight — 
Time  lays  all  houses  in  the  dust. 

Sidewalks  of  stone  or  of  cement 

On  busy  street  or  avenue, 
You  gain  of  many  an  event 

An  intimate,  peculiar  view. 

'Mid  your  humiliations  you 
Deserve  some  pleasure,  therefore  I 

Decree  each  day  you  see  anew 
Beauty  and  youth  go  passing  by. 

The  cripple  with  beseeching  hat 

Finds  you  a  profitable  seat; 
You  hear  the  plot,  the  threat,,  the  chat, 

You  feel  the  city's  heart  a-beat, 

The  snarl  and  jangle  of  the  street 
Is  yours,  and  yours  the  laugh  and  sigh, 

And  ever  yours  the  joy  to  meet 
With  youth  and  beauty  passing  by. 

[25  ] 


TESTAMENT    OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


When  we  whose  tramp  you  feel  to-day 

Have  tottered  through  our  Vale  of  Tears, 
Humanity's  bedecked  array 

Will  pass  above  you  through  the  years; 

The  crowd  that  surges,  fights  and  cheers, 
Identical,  undoomed  to  die, 

Will  still  be  yours,  while  still  appears 
Youth  in  its  beauty  passing  by. 

Windune  speaketh  of  His  Mother  and  maketh  a 
Bequest  to  her. 

Item,  to  her  who  brought  me  forth 

In  mother's  pain  and  mother's  love, 
Who  gave  my  genius  to  the  earth 

(Small  gratitude  it  shows  thereof), 

I  grant  she  may  have  griefs  above 
Each  interested  assignee, 

I  have  no  fear  nor  question  of 
The  sureness  of  this  legacy. 

For  she  who,  'neath  Death's  threatening  wings, 
Gave  me  the  Way  of  Life  to  tread, 

Who  weariness  and  sufferings 
Bore  cheerfully,  uncomforted 
By  him  who  quickly  joined  the  dead, 

Can  hope  for  only  new  distress 
Instead  of  comfort,  and  instead 

Of  cheer  I  cause  her  loneliness. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  all  who  age; 
They  ever  have  been  left  alone. 

[26] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


New  scenes  are  dropped  upon  the  stage 
And  scenes  of  eld  are  all  unknown. 
Youth  claims  a  drama  quite  his  own 

That  each  must  aid  in  or  attend, 
And  those  the  years  have  overgrown 

Can  only  have  the  past  for  friend. 

Now  Windune  speaketh  of  his  own  Lady. 

O  Lady  I  have  loved  so  long, 

Beloved  of  the  vanished  days, 
Sweet  inspiration  of  the  song 

By  which  I  seek,  in  fruitless  ways, 

To  tell  thy  grace,  so  past  all  praise 
It  must  be  pleasing  e'en  to  God, 

I  leave  thee  all  my  lover's  lays, 
Particularly  this  ballade: 

Here  followeth  the  Ballade  of  Windune  s  Sweet 
heart. 

BALLADE  OF  MY  SWEETHEART. 

A  golden  pen  and  ink  of  gold 

And  golden  thoughts  should  rightly  be 
With  him  who  dares  to  be  so  bold 

As  write  a  poem  meant  for  thee. 

And  who  am  I  who  make  so  free 
To  dabble  in  the  poet's  art 

And  sing  of  thee  a  melody, 
Sweetheart sweetheart? 

[27] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


The  winter  winds  shriek  with  the  cold, 

The  snow  is  piled  above  the  knee 
On  either  side  the  paths.     Behold, 

The  icicles  on  eave  and  tree. 

Then  look  within  my  heart  and  see 
The  fire  that  never  will  depart, 

Because  you  vowed  you  loved  but  me, 
Sweetheart,    (my  very  own)   sweetheart. 

A  golden  pen  no  man  could  hold 

Worthy  to  write  thine  high  degree 
Of  goodness,  how  thy  days  enfold 

The  sum  of  love  and  purity. 

No  ink  of  gold  could  faithfully 
The  total  of  my  love  impart, 

How  long  I've  loved  thee  utterly, 
Sweetheart,  (I  have  been  true)  sweetheart. 

L' Envoi. 

Lady,  how  quickly  the  years  flee 

And  many  friends  must  weep  and  part, 

(We  must  from  some)  but  never  we, 
Sweetheart,  (forever  true!)  sweetheart! 

O  lady,  you  have  been  so  good, 

You  will  not  laugh  at  all  my  pain? 

"He  did  the  very  best  he  could," 
Say  to  yourself,  should  you  remain 
When  I  have  joined  the  ghostly  train 

And  lie  within  my  clay-girt  hole, 
And  you  discover  we  were  twain 

Who  thought  we  were  a  single  soul. 

[28  ] 


TESTAMENT   OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Dear  lady,  when  I  think  of  how 
The  years  have  fled  for  thee  and  me, 

I  am  so  very  glad  that  thou 
Art  still  so  full  of  gaiety, 
Art  still  so  fair,  so  good  to  see, 

Still  eager  as  thou  wert  before 

For  all  good  things  earth  holds  in  fee 

And  all  that  life  has  got  in  store. 

Best  take  our  pleasure  while  we  can 
And  love  as  strongly  as  we  may; 

The  love  of  woman  and  of  man, 
That  lives  for  each  one  rosy  day, 
Is  like  the  singing  of  a  lay 

That  pierced  one  so  as  forth  it  fled 
But,  after  it  has  sunk  away, 

It  is  no  more  than  any  dead. 


Windune  maketh  a  Bequest  to  his  Children. 


Sometimes  a  man  grown  old  and  weak 

Even  forgets  the  name  he  bore 
And  heeds  not  when  a  friend  may  speak 

That  word  he  guarded  well  of  yore; 

So,  since  such  fate  may  lie  in  store 
For  me,  my  children,  I  commit 

My  name  to  you  to  use  once  more 
When  I  have  quite  forgotten  it. 


[29] 


TESTAMENT    OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Windune  turneth  to  his  native  Town  and  maketh 
a  few  Bequests. 

Item,  unto  my  native  town 

I  leave  the  honor  of  my  birth; 
Also  I  give  it  such  renown 

As  is  its  share  upon  the  earth. 

And  some  few  citizens  of  worth 
I  would  not  leave  without  bequest; 

Their  secret  wish  or  aching  dearth 
May  be  allayed  by  what  I  test. 

Item,  to  Doctor  Frank  Magee 

I  leave,  to  keep  the  wolf  outdoors, 
A  liberal  annuity 

Levied  upon  his  creditors. 

A  man  whose  ample  nature  soars 
High  over  thoughts  of  paltry  gold, 

Merits  some  comfort-guarantors 
Against  the  time  when  he  is  old. 

Here  follow eth  the  Ballade  of  Hoarded  Wealth, 
addressed  to  Doctor  Frank  Magee. 

BALLADE  OF  HOARDED  WEALTH. 

Though  we  have  little,  you  and  I, 

We  love  a  rich,  luxurious  air; 
We  do  not  hesitate  to  buy, 

On  credit,  all  we  can  or  dare. 

Oft  the  lean,  foot-sore  millionaire 

[  30] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Has  sneered  as  in  our  cars  we  rolled. 

We  thought,  as  we  observed  him  there, 
Death  robs  the  richest  of  his  gold. 

Do  rows  of  figures  satisfy 

The  stomach?     Such  were  gloomy  fare! 
Do  coupons  make  the  heart  leap  high 

As  friendly  faces  everywhere? 

For  present  pleasures  we  declare! 
Too  soon  one  lies  beneath  the  mold, 

Gone  buildings,  bonds,  stocks,  every  share — 
Death  robs  the  richest  of  his  gold. 

Through  years  of  want  the  frugal  try 
To  store  up  wealth  for  future  wear; 

But  oft  before  the  time  comes  nigh 
Which  they  decreed  for  pleasure,  care 
And  age  and  sickness,  unaware, 

Have  gained  an  all-tenacious  hold ; 
Worn-out  they  see  in  their  despair, 

Death  robs  the  richest  of  his  gold. 

L' Envoi. 

Doctor,  you  do  not  hoard  nor  spare, 

Knowing  that  rich,  like  poor,  grow  cold, 

And,  willy  nil,  are  hurried  where 
Death  robs  the  richest  of  his  gold. 

Item,  I  leave  to  him  who  lost, 
This  winter  past,  his  darling  son 

(What  else  in  life  he  treasured  most 
He  would  have  given  to  save  this  one) 

[31  ] 


TESTAMENT    OF    WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


No  gold  nor  wealth — they  ne'er  have  done 
A  father's  heart  much  good  in  pain — 

But  this,  addressed  to  him  alone, 
Trusting  it  is  not  writ  in  vain: 

Here   followeth    a   Roundel   for    W.    K.    in    his 
Sorrow. 

ROUNDEL  FOR  W.  K.  IN  HIS  SORROW. 

Without  thy  son  the  days  turn  o'er 
Like  empty  pages;  nights  are  one 

Long,  sleepless,  wretched  sorrow-store 
Without  thy  son. 

Pure  as  he  was  I  know  of  none, 

None  was  so  true  and  sweet  before — 
His  smile  was  welcome  as  the  sun. 

Bereaved,  I  wish  thee  comfort,  for 
Thy  broken  life  must  sweetlier  run; 

Thou  knowst,  at  last,  thou'lt  be  no  more 
Without  thy  son. 

Item,  unto  the  magnates  that 

On  funeral  fare  are  living  high, 
Who,  selling  burial  lots,  wax  fat, 

And  fatter  caring  for  them,,  I 

Leave  an  old  coin,  to  typify 
Their  graft,  snatched  from  a  dead  man's  e'e; 

Perhaps  'twill  help  to  satisfy 
Their  ravenous  rapacity. 

[32] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM   WINDUNE 


Little  the  dead  in  Woodcrest  know 

What  burden  falls  on  son  or  heir; 
They  cannot  answer,  yes  or  no, 

To  swollen  bills  for  little  care. 

"Finance"  is  none  of  their  affair! 
The  little  griefs  and  troubles  too 

Of  us  who  breathe  the  vital  air, 
Are  now  no  longer  their  ado. 

There  on  the  windy  river-bluff, 

Laid  in  the  sticky  yellow  clay, 
They  seem  of  very  gentle  stuff 

Who  were  full  hot  in  former  day. 

The  one  equality  know  they: 
The  wealthy  in  his  tomb  has  not 

A  whit  more  happiness  to-day 
Than  John  Doe  in  the  public  lot. 

If  we  be  rich  and  strong  and  tall 

Or  poor  and  wasting  in  a  bed, 
Let  us  rejoice  we  live  at  all 

And  do  not  furnish  worms  their  bread. 

Yea,  think  on  what  poor  Villon  said, 
"Better  to  live  and  rags  to  wear 

Than  to  have  been  a  lord,  and  dead 
Rot  in  a  splendid  sepulchre." 

Each  day  brings  forth  an  added  grief 
Or  some  new  task  with  which  to  cope. 

We  long  for  ultimate  relief, 

To  brush  aside  these  cares;  we  hope 
To  reach  a  land  of  grassy  slope 

[33  ] 


TESTAMENT    OF   WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


And  sun,  where  woes  are  left  behind. 

Ere  such  we  gain  the  earth  will  ope 
For  us — as  these,  deaf,  dumb  and  blind. 


Here  Windune  entereth  upon  his  Conclusion. 


CONCLUSION. 

O  little  gnats  of  flickering  breath! 

Since  the  first  parts  of  this  I  penned 
My  Uncle  lost  his  fight  with  death, 

My  Aunt,  too,  came  unto  her  end. 

Against  old  age  can  none  defend! 
His  stomach  failed  him  without  pain, 

Her  heart  no  more  its  charge  could  tend- 
Worn  out  by  eighty  years  of  strain. 

They  both  have  reached  the  final  stage 
Which  is  the  goal  of  low  and  high, 

Where  there  is  nought  of  youth  or  age — 
And  may  be  nought  of  "it"  or  "I." 
Though,  haply,  death  doth  unify 

Their  spirits,  haply  it  will  keep 
Their  souls  as  ages  hurry  by 

In  sweetness  of  a  dreamless  sleep. 

None  knows  Death's  sudden,  ghastly  ways 
Or  what  fell  time  he  will  arrive, 

Although  determined  are  the  days 
We  have  to  spend  on  earth,  alive. 

[  34] 


TESTAMENT  OF   WILLIAM   WINDUNE 


What  use  to  labor  and  to  thrive, 
To  win  what  race,  to  gain  what  prize, 

If,  flushed  with  triumph,  while  we  strive 
We  meet  Death's  awful,  placid  eyes? 

No  doubt  a  person's  term  of  life 

Depends,  as  does  its  good  and  ill, 
Upon  the  knowledge  that  his  wife 

May  have  of  culinary  skill. 

Poor  man  has  neither  time  nor  will 
His  stomach's  fare  to  regulate; 

It's  luck  if  he  can  pay  the  bill — 
The  rest  he's  got  to  leave  to  fate. 

Since  the  first  parts  of  this  I  penned 

My  thirty-second  year  has  fled, 
And  as  I  bring  this  to  its  end 

I  write  "my  thirty-third"  instead. 

Time  in  his  dizzy  whirl  has  sped 
And  drunkenly  his  days  has  flung, 

Changing  the  living  to  the  dead 
And  making  old  folks  out  of  young. 

Now,  Reader,  if  you  come  to  this 

Where  I  would  make  an  end  of  ends, 
Perhaps  I  do  not  hope  amiss 

That  we  may  go  our  ways  as  friends. 

Let  your  good  nature  make  amends 
For  all  the  faults  that  crowd  my  verse ; 

Wish  me  such  fortune  as  fate  sends — 
Be  sure  I  shall  not  wish  you  worse. 

[  35  ] 


TESTAMENT   OF   WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


Here  followeth  the  Ballade  that  Windune  made 

by  Way  of  Ending,  concerning  his  Verse, 

his  Tests  and  his  Aims. 

WINDUNE'S  EXPLANATORY  BALLADE. 

As  to  my  verse,  I  know  it's  lame  ; 

I  cannot  go  the  fiery  pace 
That  Byron  went,  nor  light  the  flame 

That  Swinburne  flung  in  the  world's  face. 

I  would  a  very  modest  place 
Amid  the  poets'  gatherings; 

My  own  small  thoughts  I  try  to  trace — 
I  do  not  seek  for  higher  things. 

As  to  my  tests,  if  your  own  name 

Gains  neither  gift  nor  any  praise, 
I  ask  you  openly  what  claim 

You  have  that  I  must  needs  erase? 

My  poor  bequests  were  my  disgrace 
Compared  with  millionaires'  or  kings*; 

I  only  hope  they  fit  the  case — 
I  do  not  seek  for  higher  things. 

As  to  the  final  goal  or  aim 

I  strive  for  ere  the  years  efface 
My  little  light,  unknown  to  fame, 

That  sheds  its  beams  a  narrow  space, 

It  is  to  join  the  endless  chase 
Pursuing  truth  with  eager  wings, 

To  raise  the  lowly  and  the  base — 
I  do  not  seek  for  higher  things. 

[36] 


TESTAMENT    OF   WILLIAM    WINDUNE 


L'Envoi. 

Friends,  after  life's  impatient  race, 

False  quests  and  barren  offerings, 
I  hope  to  enter  in  God's  grace — 

I  do  not  seek  for  higher  things. 

Here  endeth  the  Testament  of  William  Windunc. 


[  37] 


OTHER  POEMS. 


WIND    OVERHEAD 


WIND  OVERHEAD. 

The  wind  goes  roaring  overhead 

And  the  great,  gaunt  branches  snap  and  sway 
At  this  sorrowful  end  of  an  empty  day — 

Some  of  us  live  but  most  are  dead. 

Here  we  sit  hugging  the  end  of  day, 

Watching  the  red  West  bubble  and  burn 
With  a  glory  of  gold  we  cannot  earn, 

With  a  flicker  of  fire  that  fades  away, 

Watching  the  great,  warm  sun  expire 

In  the  hideous  night  that  streams  sinfully  by 
While  the  day  we  loved  slips  out  with  a  sigh, 

Wondering,  each  with  a  brain  a-fire, 
Which  of  us  here  will  be  next  to  die. 

The  great  wind  swelling  overhead 
Carries  the  night  in  its  terrible  grip, 
While  a  sentence  hides  beneath  each  Up — 

Some  of  us  live  but  most  are  dead. 

We  belong  to  that  pitiful  sect 

That  is  subject  to  chance's  wild  caprice, 

To  the  ravage  of  years  and  the  plot  of  disease. 

We  are  creation's  most  select, 

The  acme  or  the  apogee 

Of  Nature's  infinite  brotherhood; 

Ours  is  the  knowledge  of  evil  and  good, 

Since  Eve  did  eat  of  that  mystical  tree! 

(And  the  fruit  was  death  in  that  orchard-wood.) 

[  41  ] 


WIND    OVERHEAD 


The  black  limbs  clutching  the  skies  overhead 
Must  have  been  born  in  a  giant  birth — 
Up  to  the  heavens — deep  in  the  earth — 

Part  with  the  living  and  part  with  the  dead. 

"What  does  it  mean  to  die?"  one  said; 

"Is  it  to  rest  in  perfect  peace? 

Will  the  body  live  again  as  trees 
Or  flesh,  and  the  soul  be  totally  dead? 
Is  there  a  soul  of  any  sort 

Save  that  quintessence  of  flesh,  the  brain, 

Which  is  just  as  subject  to  change  and  pain 
As  the  legs  and  arms  and  as  much  the  sport 

Of  Fate's  abuse  and  of  Death's  disdain?" 

Into  the  night  one  thrusts  his  head, 

Saying,  "The  wind  grows  hungry  again, 
Sweeping  the  immemorial  plain, 

Searching  the  living  and  stilling  the  dead" 

One  with  white  hair  and  face  grown  grey 
Shiftily  states  that  there  may  be  hope 
Of  a  future  life  of  limited  scope 

Through  a  separation  of  spirit  and  clay, 

And  spirit,  perhaps,  in  a  manner  merged 
With  a  great,  composite,  general  soul 
Which  is  all  in  all  of  the  Cosmic  Whole — 

A  union  with  God,  as  some  have  urged, 
With  man  extinct  in  that  final  goal. 


[42] 


WIND   OVERHEAD 


What  is  it  worth,  says  the  wind  overhead, 
Screaming  like  myriad  souls  in  pain, 
Nirvana-nullity  to  attain, 

If  the  individual  lieth  dead? 

Off  in  the  distance  a  tolling  bell 

Swings  on  the  wind  like  the  pulse  of  a  world ; 

The  bayonetteers  of  the  night  are  hurled 
Forward  fearfully,  fast  and  well. 
The  West  is  black  and  the  East  the  same, 

The  satirical  stars  are  hidden  from  sight — 

It  is  better  so,  for  their  hostile  light 
Would  burn  to  the  quick  with  a  caustic  flame — 

White  as  the  leper's  sores  are  white. 

The  wind  never  ceases  overhead 

The  fatal,  menacing  message  it  cries 
To  the  mind  that  trembles,  the  flesh  that  dies- 
Some  live  but  all,  in  the  end,  are  dead. 


[43  ] 


MY    LADY  S    LIPS 


MY  LADY'S  LIPS. 

Red  lips  my  lips  have  clung  unto 
Until  your  blood  had  vanished  quite 
And  left  you  pale  with  pink  and  white, 

Young  lips  whose  life  is  ever  new, 

Whose  sweet  desire  is  never  done, 
Consider  all  the  amorous  lips 
Whose  sweetness  now  no  lover  sips 

Beneath  the  hot  and  fervid  sun. 

Hot  lips  that  seem  almost  my  own, 
Cling  closer,  for  the  evil  night 
Will  come  to  stifle  our  delight; 

Lips  that  are  soft  rose-petals  blown 

Where  winds  in  balmy  skies  expire, 
Kiss  me  as  only  young  flesh  can, 
For  the  night  cometh  when  no  man 

Can  kiss  or  clasp  his  heart's-desire. 

Yea,  straining  lips,  we  cannot  doubt 
That  you  and  I  may  come  to  be 
Dust  the  street  winds  blow  carelessly 

Before  the  sprinklers  get  about. 


[44] 


A    PRECAUTIONARY    MEASURE 


A  PRECAUTIONARY  MEASURE. 

Suggested  to  my  Lady  before  she  takes  up 
her  Residence  in  the  Spirit-World. 

Perhaps  when  you  reside  above 

With  saints  and  I  with  sinners  dwell, 

You'll  stop  your  golden  song  of  love 
An  hour,  to  think  of  me  in  Hell. 

"Perhaps  he  might  have  sung  as  well 

As  any  seraph  here  with  me, 
Perhaps  he  shakes  the  depths  of  Hell 

With  song  of  singular  melody." 

Such  may  your  thoughts  be;  you  may  say, 

"If  I  but  make  a  sacrifice 
And  go  to  meet  him  half  the  way, 

My  song  may  gain  some  fire  from  his. 

"Some  of  its  burning  interest 

May  help  the  song  in  Heaven  as  well, 
And  I,  who  thrive  among  the  blest, 

Have  felt  so  sad  for  him  in  Hell, 

"And  fain  would  meet  with  him  again 

To  give  a  little  joy  anew." 
Angel,  there  is  no  meeting  then 

But  a  deep  gulf  between  us  two. 


[45  ] 


A    PRECAUTIONARY    MEASURE 


So  while  upon  the  earth  you  dwell 

In  a  Heaven  of  joy,  in  this -tangible  star, 

You  had  better  visit  my  terrene  Hell 
Before  that  gulf  has  come  as  a  bar. 

You  had  better  take  some  fire  of  my  song 
For  your  heavenly  dwelling  that  is  to  be, 

Than  strain  your  ears  near  that  gulf  of  wrong 
For  a  snatch  of  my  singular  melody. 


[46] 


FEVERISH    MAN 


FEVERISH  MAN. 

Man  thinks  himself  final,  eternal, 
Believing  the  elements  love  him, 

While  around  him  are  forces  supernal 
And  the  stars  may  be  laughing  above  him. 

Feverish  man, 

Engrossed  in  his  planning  and  straining, 
His  loving  and  stealing  and  gaining, 
Speeds  through  his  span. 

So  busy  with  seeding  and  reaping 
He  lives,  that  he  leaves  unregarded 
The  many  forms  nature  discarded 
In  aeons  of  genital  creeping; 

He  reads  not  the  moon's  message  clear 
Whose  white  face  is  paler  than  fear 
In  feverish  man. 

Feverish  man, 

Consumed  with  his  wilful  endeavor 
Presumes  his  way  forward  forever 
Passes  all  ban. 

Unthinking  that  changes  colossal 

Will  reck  not  of  him  and  his  pleading, 
That  earth  growing  colder,  unheeding, 
Will  roll  him  with  coal-field  and  fossil, 
Untouched  by  the  endless  desire, 
The  pulse-beats,  the  maddening  fire, 
Of  feverish  man, 

[47] 


FEVERISH    MAN 


The  great,  stalwart  suns  will  be  swinging 
In  their  courses  unheeded,  unheeding, 

The  strange  sound  of  spheres  will  be  ringing, 
The  nebulae  twisting  and  breeding. 


[48  ] 


IMPARTIAL 


IMPARTIAL. 

Our  hearts  rejoice  at  skies  of  blue, 
At  sparkling  sun  and  balmy  air 

When  springtime  wakes  the  earth  anew — 
To  Him  is  neither  foul  nor  fair. 

But  when  the  heavens  overhead, 

Corpse-color,  drip  with  ooze,  we  scowl, 

Thinking  of  dreary  things  and  dead — 
To  Him  is  neither  fair  nor  foul. 

We  have  our  standards  ethical 
Of  manhood  and  of  womanhood 

(Unconscious  of  the  cause  of  all)  — 
To  Him  is  neither  bad  nor  good. 

The  harlot  and  the  murderer 

To  us  (though  also  strange  and  sad) 

Are  wicked,  loathsome,  sinister — 
To  Him  is  neither  good  nor  bad. 

Through  summer  days  of  sun  and  rain 
Men  wait  till  certain  signs  are  seen 

Then  reap,  for  human  use,  the  grain — 
To  Him  is  neither  ripe  nor  green. 

The  fruit  above  the  weathered  wall 
Shows  sunburnt  cheek  or  crimson  stripe 

Ere  we  anticipate  its  fall — 

To  Him  is  neither  green  nor  ripe. 

[49] 


IMPARTIAL 


Through  microscopes  we  strain  our  eyes 

Atom  or  germ  to  designate — 
Infinitesimal  in  size — 

To  Him  is  neither  small  nor  great. 

While  from  another  glass  in  awe 
We  turn  and  in  our  wonder  call 

Unmentionable  what  we  saw — 
To  Him  is  neither  great  nor  small. 

Life's  blessing  lies  in  golden  hair 

And  lissome  youth  we  oft  have  sung 

And  age  means  death  and  dark  despair — 
To  Him  is  neither  old  nor  young. 

Astronomers  find  ancient,  worn, 

Wandering  worlds  long  dead  and  cold, 

Then  nebulae  or  worlds  unborn — 
To  Him  is  neither  young  nor  old. 


C  50] 


YALE   REVISITED 


YALE  REVISITED. 

Mother,  the  years  have  been  so  long 
And  worthless  things  have  laid  me  low. 
I  thought  to  place  upon  thy  brow 

Sweet  garlands  of  immortal  song. 

But  now  the  hands  that  dared  aspire 
To  bless  thee  with  such  gifts  as  these 
Can  scarcely  reach  unto  thy  knees 

To  clasp  thy  robe  with  palms  of  fire. 

Yea,  for  my  hands  are  hot  with  shame 
That  I  who  hoped  for  things  so  high 
Am  fallen  in  such  a  way  that  I 

Can  add  no  honor  to  thy  name. 

Thy  sturdy  sons  in  victory 

Have  brought  thee  many  a  goodly  gift 
And  paid  with  products  of  their  thrift 

The  ancient  debts  they  owed  to  thee. 

But  I,  whose  debt  is  very  great, 
Have  not  the  smallest  gift  to  bring 
Of  fame  or  golden  offering, 

But  come,  a  poor  unfortunate, 

Whose  tongue  must  ever  beg  for  more 
Of  strength  and  guidance,  ask  of  thee 
To  steer  me  o'er  the  weary  sea 

To  some  new  haven  on  the  shore. 

[  51  ] 


YALE    REVISITED 


Mother,  I  am  not  fit  to  cope 
With  giants  of  this  modern  strife, 
So  I  have  lost  my  grip  on  life 

And  lost  my  courage  and  my  hope. 

The  weight  of  failure  overwhelms 
My  heart  and  makes  me  turn  my  face 
Homeward  and  ask  thee  of  thy  grace 

To  shelter  me  beneath  the  elms. 


[  52] 


IN    AN   OLD    MAY 


IN  AN  OLD  MAY. 

Launcelot  sings: 
Gold  hair  is  bright  in  youth  and  May 

But  soon  the  winter  turns  it  white. 
Sweet  love,  so  gold  is  yours  to-day 

I  would  God  never  sent  the  night; 
But  while  the  day  is  in  your  hair 
Let  me  be  strong  and  you  be  fair. 

Guenevere  sings: 
A  little  time  in  youth  and  play 

For  lady  fair  and  lordly  knight ! 
True  love,  so  strong  you  seem  to-day 

I  would  God  never  sent  the  night; 
Would  day  were  many  lifetimes  long 
While  I  am  fair  and  you  are  strong. 

Launcelot  sings: 
A  little  time  are  lovers  gay 

And  all  the  world  is  lit  with  light; 
Gold  love,  so  bright  it  is  to-day 

I  would  God  never  sent  the  night, 
Would  all  things  ever  golden  were, 
I  ever  strong,  you  ever  fair. 

Guenevere  sings: 
Great  lord,  my  beauty  will  decay 

And  years  will  quite  destroy  your  might; 
Howe'er  we  love  the  sweet  To-day 

And  wish  God  never  sent  the  Night, 
Years  hence  alone  in  tale  and  song 
Shall  I  be  fair  and  you  be  strong. 

[  53  ] 


A    SUMMER   DAY 


A  SUMMER  DAY. 

Somehow  it  seemed  the  open  air 

Might  cleanse  her  of  her  first  disgrace, 
And  so  she  found  a  sunny  place 

And  stretched  herself  in  silence  there. 

Her  body  she  had  loved  to  touch 
And  tend  and  gaze  on  and  control, 
And  even  her  inmost  private  soul 

Felt  soiled  with  an  enduring  smutch. 

Although  there  had  seemed  nothing  true 
But  passion  when  she  yielded,  yet 
She  shut  her  eyes  to  help  forget 

And — lest  the  sun  might  stare  her  through. 

Then,  with  a  little  moan  of  pain, 
She  turned  upon  her  side  and  saw 
The  hot,  grey  clouds  that  strove  to  draw 

Rare  moisture  for  the  blessed  rain. 

She  felt  the  burnt  grass  with  her  palm 
And  thought  that  it  was  blasted  too 
And  yearned  for  rain  or  healing  dew 

As  she  for  death  or  changeless  calm. 

The  very  air  seemed  choked  with  shame, 
In  the  high  trees  no  frail  leaf  stirred, 
Only  a  little  scarlet  bird 

Shot  through  the  air,  a  shaft  of  flame. 

[  54] 


A    SUMMER   DAY 


Hearing  at  length  a  whistle  shrill, 

She  loosed  her  clenched  hands  from  the  dirt 
And  wearily  arranged  her  skirt 

As  he  came  slouching  up  the  hill. 


TEMPUS    OMNIA   VINCIT 


TEMPUS  OMNIA  VINCIT. 

Beloved,  all  in  all  to  me, 
Dearer  than  sight  of  sun  and  sea 

And  leaves  of  spring  and  leaves  of  fall, 
Whose  little  mouth  was  made  to  kiss — 
Sweeter  than  honey-comb  it  is — 

How  can  we  stand  against  it  all? 

How  can  we  put  our  little  sweet 
Against  the  worlds  beneath  our  feet 

And  many  million  worlds  above? 
In  love  a  little  day  we  spend 
But  they  will  crush  us  in  the  end 

For  all  our  little  strength  is  love. 

How  can  the  feeble  shore  withstand 
The  wash  of  the  sea  against  the  land? 

The  wash  of  time  the  earth  will  mar 
And  change  it  to  some  other  thing, 
And  we  who  kiss  and  love  and  sing 

Will  be  the  dust  of  a  dead  star. 

Beloved,  all  in  all  to  me, 
Dearer  than  sunlight  on  the  sea, 

Clasp  both  thine  arms  about  me  tight, 
Press  to  my  lips  thy  clinging  lips — 
Sweeter  than  honey  the  bee  sips — 

That  we  may  both  forget  the  Night. 


ACCEPTABLE    IN    HIS   SIGHT 


ACCEPTABLE  IN  HIS  SIGHT. 

God  has  not  seen  a  sight  more  fair, 
My  lady,  than  your  wistful  face 

Crowned  with  a  halo  of  gold  hair 
That  glorifies  the  dreariest  place. 

What  is  it  you  are  longing  for? 

What  is  your  mouth  so  wistful  of  ? 
It  seems  your  heart  is  straining  sore 

For  something — is  it  God  or  love? 

If  God  has  looked  upon  the  earth 
While  many  million  years  have  rolled 

Since  its  hot,  vaporous  time  of  birth, 
His  eyes  must  now  be  very  old. 

And  it  must  be  so  good  to  Him, 
After  the  sights  that  meet  His  gaze 

Of  horror  and  hate  and  famine  grim, 
To  see  your  gentle  face  and  ways, 

To  see  you  doing  His  commands, 
Spreading  His  sweetness  everywhere, 

Living  as  if  His  loving  hands 

Were  lightly  laid  upon  your  hair. 

O  lady  of  the  shining  face, 
Is  all  that  you  are  wistful  of 

Simply  the  spreading  of  His  grace — 
Or  do  you  yearn  for  human  love? 

[57] 


ON   THE    HILLSIDE 


ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

Waken  her,  dear,  as  we  used  to  do, 

Calling,  "Sweet,  sweet,"  as  she  lay  asleep ; 
This  morn  when  the  branch-buds  burst  and  leap 

Certainly  she  will  waken  too. 

She  who  was  motion,  life  and  song, 

Now,  as  the  cordial  sunbeams  play 

Cheerfully  over  the  grass  to-day, 
Surely  can  not  be  quiet  long. 

Let  us  await  till  day  be  fled, 

By  this  grassy  hill,  her  coming  through, 

Praying  to  see  those  eyes  of  blue 
Shining  out  of  that  curled  gold  head. 


[  58] 


LUX    EXSTINCTA 


LUX  EXSTINCTA. 

The  light  of  heaven  in  her  face 
Illumed  the  mirky  way  I  fared — 
She  seemed  a  little,  golden-haired 

Angel  endowed  with  God's  own  grace. 

Her  childish  ways  were  my  delight; 
Out  of  my  depths  I  smiled  to  say 
That  surely  God  had  made  the  day 

For  her,  although  for  me  the  night. 

Her  little  body  was  not  made 
For  pain  or  any  evil  thing 
Such  as  that  fearful  withering 

Which  left  her  great  blue  eyes  afraid. 

— And  how  with  all  my  worthless  might 
I  prayed  her  light  should  never  wane 
And  whispered  oft  and  oft  again, 

"For  her  the  day,  for  me  the  night!" 

Yet  though  we  labored,  prayed  and  cried, 
The  piercing  pain  that  made  her  gasp 
Gathered  her  child's  heart  in  its  grasp, 

And,  with  a  little  shriek,  she  died. 

At  first  I  had  no  word  to  say; 

I  could  not  feel  she  would  not  come 
To  fight  the  shadows  of  my  home 

And  smooth  my  troubles  all  away. 

[  59] 


LUX    EXSTINCTA 


But  now  I  know  that  there  will  be 
Sunlight  no  more  upon  my  way, 
And  sometimes  mockingly  I  say, 

"For  her  what  night,  what  day  for  me?" 

What  sorrow  would  God's  great  heart  nurse 
If,  of  the  countless  worlds  a-fire, 
He  saw  the  last  huge  sun  expire 

And  darkness  whelm  the  universe! 


C  60] 


MOTHERS   SONG 


MOTHER'S  SONG. 

From  The  Ephemera. 

Sweet  little  life,  sweet  part  of  me, 

That  makes  me  mother  more  than  wife, 

My  heart  is  all  bound  up  in  thee, 
Sweet  little  life. 

Sweet  little  eyes  that  cannot  see 

The  woe  of  this  great  world  and  wise, 

I  would  that  ye  might  ever  be 
Sweet  little  eyes. 

Sweet  little  mouth  that  holds  in  fee 
My  being's  best  to  slake  thy  drouth, 

Take  what  thou  wilt  of  me,  of  me, 
Sweet  little  mouth. 


[61  ] 


A    BALLAD    OF    JOHN    DAVIDSON 


A  BALLAD  OF  JOHN  DAVIDSON. 

Out  of  a  grimy  Scottish  town 

Where  Holy  Writ  was  daily  bread, 

Up  to  the  great,  grey  Babylon 
With  heart  a-fire  the  rebel  fled. 

With  genius  piercing  through  the  mirk, 
Gasping,  he  saw  the  secret  plan, 

The  beauteous  horror  of  God's  work, 
The  glory  and  the  doom  of  man. 

The  gloomy  hopefulness  of  doubt 
His  black  conviction  hurled  behind — 

While  Heaven  and  Hell  were  tossed  about 
In  windy  caverns  of  his  mind. 

Yet  times  there  were  when  even  he 

Breathed  joy  from  every  springtime  flower; 

On  summer  nights  he  loved  to  see 
The  stars  burst  in  a  silver  shower. 

The  bitter  magic  of  his  soul 

Transmuted  words  to  poets'  gold; 

As  swift  as  light  from  source  to  goal 
His  thought  in  fearful  vision  rolled. 

Although  he  dipped  his  pen  in  flame 
But  little  bread  and  meat  he  earned; 

The  fever  shook  his  burning  frame, 
His  lips  with  cynic  laughter  burned. 

[  62] 


A    BALLAD    OF    JOHN    DAVIDSON 


His  blood  was  brazen  fire  within, 
His  heart  a  molten  mass  of  fire, 

A  field  of  fever  was  his  skin 
And  every  nerve  a  singing  wire. 

In  Hinnom's  Vale,  a  man  accursed, 
He  delved  in  frantic  depths  of  pain; 

Sometimes  it  seemed  his  skull  would  burst 
With  the  fierce  pressure  of  his  brain. 

Sometimes  at  Ancient  Wrong  he  railed 
And  his  weak,  zealous  arrows  hurled ; 

Sometimes  his  heart  on  fire  exhaled 
Sweet  incense  for  a  sinful  world. 

In  a  red  riot  Space  and  Time 

With  bludgeon  blows  his  soul  assailed; 
At  times  his  hands  were  black  with  slime 

And  then  the  sun  before  him  paled. 

He  cried,  when  twisting  with  the  strain 
That  seemed  about  to  burst  its  bars, 

"If  poetry  is  born  of  pain 

My  verse  should  scrape  the  nadir  stars. 

"The  purest  notes  that  critics  hail 
Out  of  some  broken  heart  are  torn — 

The  swan  at  death,,  the  nightingale 
Sings  best,  pierced  by  a  thorn." 


[63] 


A    BALLAD   OF    JOHN    DAVIDSON 


He  struck  his  brow,  he  clenched  his  teeth, 
And  spoke  through  lips  in  pain  compressed, 

"What  matter  one  more  laurel  wreath, 
Thrown  on  the  dung-hill  with  the  rest !" 

Sick  of  the  Babylonian  stews, 

Of  dwelling  with  the  living  dead, 

Crushed  by  the  drain  of  wound  and  bruise, 
From  Babylon  the  victim  fled. 

Hoping  for  solace  and  relief, 

For  Lethe  from  Fate's  steely  sport, 

He  sought  to  bury  thought  and  grief 
In  quiet  of  a  Cornish  port. 

Yet  little  different  he  found 

Huge  London  and  minute  Penzance, 

When  all  the  wild  world  whirling  'round 
Could  break  no  bonds  of  circumstance. 

Flee  as  he  would,  his  fiery  mind 

Fled  with  him ;  goaded  night  and  day, 

He  could  not  leave  himself  behind 
Nor  turn  Death's  stealthy  step  away. 

"Why  live  in  Hell,"  he  questioned,  "why 
Not  try  the  brave,  old-fashioned  crime? 

It  is  not  difficult  to  die 

And  cheat  my  snarling  captor,  Time. 


[64] 


A    BALLAD   OF    JOHN    DAVIDSON 


"If  life  snuffs  out,  at  least  I  gain 
A  quick  escape  from  horror's  mesh; 

And  there's  a  blessed  end  of  pain 
In  being  nothing  but  dead  flesh." 

Then  suddenly  he  disappeared, 

And  it  was  thought  that  he  had  died 

Seeking  the  nothingness  he  feared, 
Until  one  day  the  restless  tide 

Bore.,  bobbing  up  and  down  upon 
Its  breathing  breast,  a  sodden  shape. 

'Twas  he  whose  hair  had  brushed  the  sun, 

Whose  hands  had  wrapped  the  stars  with  crape. 

"Poor  Davidson!"  the  papers  said; 

"His  corpse  was  picked  up  in  the  sea; 
His  books,  not  very  widely  read, 

Are  marked  by  their  intensity." 

In  some  fantastic  spot  of  space 

Suited  to  that  perfervid  soul 
Does  he  view  cosmos  face  to  face 

And  watch  the  tumbling  aeons  roll  ? 

Perhaps  with  transcendental  sight 

He  sees,  in  fringes  of  the  sky, 
Old  suns  go  reeling  into  night, 

Great  winds  of  chaos  billowing  by. 


[65] 


A    BALLAD    OF   JOHN    DAVIDSON 


With  genius  piercing  through  the  mirk, 
Haply  he  grasps  an  inner  plan, 

The  mighty  marvel  of  God's  work 
And  some  escape  for  fruitless  man. 

At  least  that  brazen  blood  within, 

That  heart  that  flamed  all  white  with  fire, 

Are  cool  as  is  that  fevered  skin 
And  quiet  as  those  nerves  of  wire. 

At  least,  though  he  be  putrid  meat, 
He  knows  no  horror  nor  distress, 

E'en  though  he  tread  with  ghostly  feet 
Pale  seas  and  shores  of  Nothingness. 

Though  earth  applaud  and  critics  praise, 
Though  many  of  his  books  be  sold, 

He  recks  no  more  of  nights  or  days — 
The  flame  is  quenched,  the  ash  is  cold. 


[66] 


WINTER 


WINTER. 

One  speaks: 
We  sleep  within  soft  sheets,  we  lie 

In  comfortable  warmth,  nor  weep 
That  winter  crawls  so  slowly  by — 

Knowing  nought  else  so  good  as  sleep. 

Another  answers: 
But  what  of  those  who,  thin  and  cold, 

Huddle  in  doorways  in  the  rain, 
Or  envy  jewelers  the  gold 

Fenced  from  them  by  a  window-pane? 

Who  knows  what  squalor  they  are  in? 

Who  knows  what  horrid  haunts  they  keep, 
What  woe  they  feel  from  want  or  sin, 

Within  what  sheets  they  go  to  sleep? 

The  bitter  wind  that  shrieks  and  moans 

About  our  houses,  gust  on  gust, 
Cuts  through  their  garments  to  the  bones 

With  savage  glee  at  every  thrust. 

And  what  of  those  who,  finely  dressed, 
All  winter  long  lie  side  by  side, 

Arrayed  in  all  their  Sunday-best, 

As  a  bridegroom  that  greets  his  bride? 

Is  it  not  very  cold  for  them, 
Yea,  for  the  poor  dead  ladies  too 

Who  do  not  sit  to  knit  or  hem 
In  warm  rooms  as  they  used  to  do? 

[67] 


WINTER 


Though  we  who  sleep  in  tender  sheets 
May  never  feel  the  bite  of  cold, 

Nor  starve  for  want  of  sumptuous  meats, 
Nor  covet  any  other's  gold, 

Yet  in  some  winter  we  shall  lie 
Superbly  dressed  and  side  by  side, 

But  not  with  joy  or  longing  sigh 

A  bridegroom  has  who  greets  the  bride; 

Yea,  without  sound  of  song  or  mirth, 
Or  savory  smells  of  Living  Land, 

Or  taste  of  all  the  sweets  of  earth, 
Or  sight  of  face  or  touch  of  hand. 


[68] 


ODE    TO   GJEA 


ODE  TO  GMA. 

O  mother,  marvellous  mother, 
Out  of  you,  the  eternal  source, 

With  many  a  lesser  brother 
Came  man,  in  his  due  course; 

Out  of  you  plain  and  river, 

Mountains  where  white  streams  quiver, 

Forests  the  forked  fires  sliver, 
And  every  form  of  force. 

Born  of  a  fierce  communion, 

Daughter  of  Time  and  Space, 
Whose  vast,  primeval  union 

Bore  the  world-Titan  race, 
After  your  mighty  yearning, 
Such  dire  and  desperate  burning, 
How  can  you  now  be  turning 
So  bland  and  bright  a  face? 

Wild  fruit  of  fiery  passion, 

You  blew  and  shrunk  and  glowed, 

Reeling  in  drunken  fashion 
On  the  celestial  road. 

From  film  to  fire  transmuted, 

On  chaos'  whirlwinds  bruited, 

How  can  you  now  be  suited 
For  a  frail  child's  abode? 

O  mother,  ancient  mother, 

Your  youth  has  long  been  spent, 

Ages  your  white  fires  smother, 
You  smile  in  fond  content. 

[  69  ] 


ODE    TO   G^EA 


Your  surface  basks  so  sweetly, 
So  gently  and  so  meetly, 
You  have  forgot  completely 

Whither  your  flame  days  went. 

Your  breasts  have  suckled  nations 
That  grew  to  glorious  might, 

Then,  swept  from  rent  foundations, 
Plunged  to  an  utter  night. 

Wild  winds  wail  Susa's  story, 

Dead  books  tell  Athens'  glory, 

And  ruins  dank  and  hoary 
Mark  Babylon  the  bright. 

Within  your  womb  that  bore  them 

Lie  the  colossal  dead; 
Desire  can  not  restore  them, 

Nor  Battle  bright  and  red, 
Nor  Art  the  ones  who  sought  her, 
Nor  Fame  the  great  who  bought  her, 
Nor  love  of  wind  and  water 

Those  whom  Poseidon  led. 

Grave  minds  with  wisdom  gifted 

Say  man  will  stay  not  still, 
But,  through  the  years  uplifted, 

A  perfect  plan  fulfill, 
To  stand  at  last  not  mirthless, 
But  flawless,  radiant,  earth-less, 
Purged  of  all  waste  and  worthless 
Dead  leaves  of  Igdrasil. 

[70] 


ODE    TO    GSEA 


But  you,  O  mother  mournful, 

Must  know  these  thoughts  are  vain; 
Exulting  man  grown  scornful, 

Waxing — will  also  wane! 
When  your  hot  heart  grows  colder, 
Art,  virtue,  mind  will  moulder, 
All  man's  might  fearful,  bolder, 
Will  fight  the  cold  and  pain. 

Then,  toy  of  blind  conditions, 
Your  petted  child  will  cease, 

Conquered  by  harsh  transitions, 
Lastly  in  silent  peace, 

Instead  of  height  supernal, 

Life  perfect,  bright,  eternal, 

Turned  in  your  course  diurnal 
With  mountains  and  with  seas. 

Souls  without  name  or  number, 

Unharassed,  undistressed, 
Will  lie  in  utter  slumber, 

One  in  that  final  rest; 
And  guardian  gods  whose  keeping 
Was  prayed  with  groans  and  weeping 
Will  also  then  be  sleeping 

Soundly  as  curst  or  blest. 

Hot  hearts  that  burst  with  beating, 
Cold  hearts  no  grief  could  mar, 

Brains  that  grew  white  with  heating, 
Soft  flesh  without  a  scar, 

[71] 


ODE   TO 


Will  lie  in  one  united — 
The  fortunate,  the  slighted, 
The  righteous,  the  benighted — 
Dust  of  a  dying  star. 

Lonely  and  cold  and  rigid 

You  will  tour  the  tenuous  waves 
Of  ether  frail  and  frigid, 

Your  dead  breast  full  of  graves; 
Thus  will  your  heat  have  ended, 
All  life  that  you  befriended — 
Your  offspring — long  since  wended 
Where  nothing  damns  or  saves. 


[72] 


MAE  25  1219 


r  A 


358014 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


